


Sacrilege

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [19]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Blasphemy, Church Sex, Other, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2019-09-24 06:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17095442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: He is the wolf in sheep's clothing you were warned about every Sunday, and knowing that only makes you cling to him even harder.





	Sacrilege

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for goretober 2016; prompt "under the skin"

“Does this feel like sin to you?” Rire asks.

He asks this with you splayed across red velvet cloth on the altar, skin dotted with bites marks, dark and splotchy like poppy petals. Jesus, nails through his wrists and a crown of thorns circling his head, looks down at you both, as do the saints frozen in stained glass, and you squirm self-consciously.

You haven’t been back here in years, not since you were young and you sat with your mother, watched her press her rosary to her lips as she whispered to a heavenly father that you had lost faith in, asking for protection and guidance. The pastor would stand where Rire does now, spewing threats of eternal damnation with frightening eyes, and you remember feeling out of place, feeling judged, feeling as though he could see right through you.

You think Rire, too, can read you like an open book, but you don’t fear him like you did the priest. He did not come to judge you; he came to lead you into temptation. He is the wolf in sheep’s clothing you were warned about every Sunday, and knowing that only makes you cling to him even harder.

“Doing this here,” he purrs, index finger trailing down your chest slowly and teasingly, “is surely the worst of all taboos. How does that make you feel?”

You look away in embarrassment and he cups your face with his free hand, forcing you to meet his gaze of lust and hellfire.

“It doesn’t make me feel anything,” you admit.

“Oh?”

“That’s weird, isn’t it? I should feel something.” You let your head fall back and stare up at the inverted image of Saint George driving his lance through the belly of a dragon, sin and temptation vanquished and trampled beneath his white horse. “The way I was brought up, this should really bother me.”

You hear his tentacles unfurling from his back with a wet squelching sound even if you can’t quite see them in the darkness of the church. They drip something viscous and tar-colored over your bare skin, and you shiver when the droplets slide down your body.

“What should?” he asks, feigning ignorance. “Lying with a demon or fucking on a church altar?” One thick tentacle glides down the front of your body and you shiver.

“Both,” you say.

He splays his hand over your abdomen and leans in, face inches from yours. “Do you regret it?” he asks.

You shake your head and his smile widens.

“As well you shouldn’t,” he assures you, grinning so you can see all of his sharp teeth. “Sin is nonsensical. Why deny yourself what you want? Why hold back?”

There is a lingering sense of regret somewhere in your mind, doubt that this is even what you really want, but it’s drowned out by lust and curiosity. Your entire world narrows until it’s only this moment—just Rire leading you further into debauchery as the serpent led God’s first humans to the forbidden fruit, and you are relishing each taste.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and you obey without hesitation. You’re unable to look away from the tentacle curling around from behind him as it prods at your entrance, hot and slick. He holds your ankles apart with one tentacle wrapped around each and begins to push inside, holding your hips with surprisingly gentle hands.

“Do you remember the night we met?” he asks you, and you try to answer but your words all smash together into a moan when the tendril inside of you undulates and works its way deeper. “You came to me, not the other way around. You sought me out and confessed to me the way you might a priest. I wondered if, on some level, you might have known what I was. If you realized what I was capable of.” He laughs under his breath and you flinch when you feel the heated, engorged flesh of his cock rubbing against your thigh.

You don’t get the chance to ask him what he’s doing, because suddenly he’s forcing himself in alongside the tentacle, scraping your inner walls and filling you completely, the dull burn of the stretch becoming a searing pain. You wrap your arms around him and dig your nails into his back, breathing shallow.

“Your prayers were answered, weren’t they?” he asks, sounding breathless as he begins to fuck you in earnest, hips slamming into yours far before you’ve had time to adjust. “You were delivered from your inhibitions and guilt. Your eyes were opened to greater things.”

Your entire body trembles beneath him, wailing moans tearing from your throat with every rough thrust. You think you can feel the tentacle changing shape, growing inside of you, and when you look down to see where your bodies are meeting, you notice a writhing bulge in your stomach, straining beneath your skin. You feel light-headed and your vision is blurring. The pain is greater than the pleasure, but there’s something satisfying about that.

“Who did that?” Rire demands, slamming into you. “Who answered your prayers?”

“You did,” you cry.

“Who delivered you into temptation?”

“You did!”

“Who opened your eyes?”

“Y-you did!” Tears stream down your cheeks as you hold onto him tightly, and despite the sensations overwhelming you, you don’t close your eyes. You lean your head back on the altar to look up again at parading monks and crusading saints and Jesus himself strung up for your supposed sins, rotting on the cross, unable to do anything to save you even if you wanted them to.

They are nothing to you now.

“Humans think places like this are consecrated and sacred,” Rire mutters. “Holy ground.”

You gasp when the bulge in your stomach twitches and writhes. You feel warmth coating your fingers embedded in his back and think you might have drawn blood.

“But nothing and nowhere is sacred.”

You know this by now. You think you once believed in the lie of sacred, holy things, but Rire has shown you the truth. Here you are in the church of your former God, defiling a shrine to your heavenly father with blasphemous talk and animalistic rutting. You keen when Rire hits a bundle of nerves within you that makes pleasure shoot your spine, your hips moving instinctively against him, and you actually forget where you are for a moment.

And as you feel the coil of pleasure deep within you tightening unbearably through all the pain, Rire’s tentacle squirming beneath your skin, his breath hot against your ear, you hear him whisper, “Who is your god now?”

Your back arches off of the altar and you give yourself to him completely, whispering what he has known all along.


End file.
